But there is one thing that ought to be said here. A Catholic ought never to consider as useless, or as almost useless, any one of the sacraments. This too many do as regards confession. They underrate it. They think, therefore, it is no good unless they receive Communion every time they go to confession. Now this is a grave error. One is _not_ obliged to go to Communion every time he goes to confession. Those who cannot go to Mass nor Communion, on account of their business or employment or work keeping them away, can at least go to confession very often during the year. All such an one has to do is to prepare himself carefully, step into the rector's house, make his confession, and go on to work again. If he but make an arrangement with some one of the priests he can always be heard at once. Frequent confession is a wonderful help to a good life and a happy death.
_Which of you shall convince me of sin?_ --John viii. 46.
To-day, dear friends, is Passion Sunday, and our long Lenten pilgrimage is nearing its end. Heretofore our thoughts have been on ourselves, our own shortcomings, our own sins. Now we stand, as it were, on the hill overlooking the Holy City, and see before us, as a map unrolled, the scene of our Redeemer's agony: Bethany, the olive-garden of Gethsemani, and, further on, the barren mount of Calvary, with its three crosses standing forth, black and cruel, against the fair blue sky.
Now our thoughts turn from ourselves to our Lord. We have seen what the effect of sin has been on us. Now we look and see, and our shame should deepen as we see, what sorrow and tears and agony it has brought on the eternal Son of God.
To-day the cross is veiled, the pictures are shrouded in mourning, the "Gloria" ceases to be sung. So our sins covered our dying Lord as with a garment, and sorrow chokes the voice of holy church, fills her heart to overflowing, and stills all her songs of praise.
What is this veil which obscures the cross of Jesus Christ and makes his Passion of no effect? O dear brethren! is it not our sins? What platted the crown of thorns, and drove those sharp spikes deep into his sacred head? Our selfish pride. What sent those nails through his hands and feet, fixing them to the tree of shame? Our wicked deeds and our wanderings from the path of duty. What parched his tongue with such burning thirst? Our shameless indulgence in drink. What pointed the spear of the impious Roman soldier, and hurled it deep into the Sacred Heart, whence issued the red torrent of the Precious Blood? Our inordinate appetites and sinful lusts. As often as we sin we crucify our dearest Lord afresh.